


picture in a frame

by listentotheink



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Sex, Student!Louis, University AU, harry tops, popstar!harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/938006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentotheink/pseuds/listentotheink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrities always say, (well they don’t always say, but it feels like it's common knowledge among fans) that if you ask for a picture with them, there is instantly no chance for you to ever be a friend to them, because they're aware of the idol worship. For Louis that wasn't true. And he thanks God every fucking day that it wasn't, because if it had been, he never would have gotten Harry Styles' number. Not in a million years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	picture in a frame

There’s a picture of him, framed on his desk. Next to his book on diction in the theatre. The frame isn’t all that special, though. Just a polished oak wood with a black velvet backing to hold the picture. The frame isn’t all that important to him. It’s simple like he is. But the photograph. The photograph is where the true importance lies. Sure, it’s not the best picture of him. And it’s not quite focused in the way where it’s so high quality it looks fake, but it’s there. He can see himself. Can see who he’s with, and that’s what should count, if he’s honest with himself.

When he looks at it, he’s grateful he has a single room. Grateful that he’s only got one mate at university who actually enjoys his company, while the others simply choose to study with him until the wee hours of the morning, slurping back redbull and crunching on doritos and biscuits until they’ve got that one last word on their papers done. It’s okay, though. He’s never needed a lot of people to be okay. He has himself. He has his theatre. He has his acting which is his shield. And he likes putting on his facade of Louis Tomlinson every morning, when in all actuality, he prefers being Just Louis, but only with people he feels safe around.

And tonight, he’s being Just Louis, wrapped in a jumper that’s two sizes too big for him, knees tucked up under him on his futon he has pressed against the wall opposite his bed. And he’s reading some book about comic duos and wondering if his life could possibly make a good play, if he were to write it down. But writing had never really been his strong suit, and he was going to university to be a teacher, not a playwright. So, that was that.

He taps his pen on his notebook and scribbles “Timon and Pumbaa v. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern” on the top line, flipping the pages of his book so he can get started on a paper due in two days. He really needs to get better at this whole procrastination thing, but honestly. The paper is about the Lion King and it’s similarities to Hamlet. How hard can it be? You’ve got the protagonist (Simbaa, Hamlet) the antagonist (Scar, Claudius) and the outside driving force (Mufasa and Hamlet Sr), and the plot is strikingly similar, as are the characters. He could write a four-page-double-spaced-times-new-roman-font-size-twelve essay about it in his sleep. And sleep is sounding really fucking good right now, seeing as it’s three in the morning and he has a class in six hours.

But he’s staying awake for ulterior motives tonight, if he’s honest. He’s waiting for a phone call from the boy in the picture on his desk. He’s in America right now, New York City, actually. And that puts them about five hours behind, but Louis would stay awake as long as it took to get a call from him.

 

Celebrities always say, (well they dont always say, but it feels like it's common knowledge among fans) that if you ask for a picture with them, there is instantly no chance for you to ever be a friend to them, because they're aware of the idol worship. For Louis that wasn't true. And he thanks God every fucking day that it wasn't, because if it had been, he never would have gotten Harry Styles' number. Not in a million years.

He was a fan, yeah. And when he says he was a fan, he means a super fan. Like. One of the ones with posters all over the walls, five different versions of each song on his phone, lyric tattoo on his wrist, tumblr dedicated to pretty pictures of the boy, and (he would only admit this when he was drunk) a cardboard standee in his room at his home in Doncaster. Harry Styles was his role model, someone that he constantly looked up to. Someone who proved that amazing things do happen to boys in small towns. Someone who taught him to work hard and he would excel in whatever he wanted to do.

So yeah, it was a really fucking big deal to him when he saw him, walking down the street towards a coffee shop in Doncaster. He played a concert there the night before (Louis hadn’t been able to go, couldn’t scrape up the money in time for the tickets) and for some reason he had stuck around on his off day. Which didn’t make any sense because there was absolutely nothing to do in Donny. But, to each their own. Maybe he was enjoying how small the town was, or something. But it was a day off, Louis wasn’t even going to go up to him if it wasn’t for his little sister Lottie tugging on his hand.

“Louis!” she had said. “Lou! Look! It’s Harry Styles!”

He thinks that the head of curls must have heard his name being called, because he turns around and fuck he’s the most beautiful creature Louis has ever seen in his life. He’s dressed simply. Black scoop neck t-shirt, displaying the tips of his swallow tattoos just over the collar, black jeans and a scarf to tie his curls back. Plus he’s wearing those stupid brown leather boots that he seemingly refuses to get rid of, even though Louis can see his toes through the holes in them. He knows how that is, though. He’s got a pair of white converse he refuses to get rid of, even though they’re close to falling apart. He can relate, and that makes him happy. Makes him feel like he has something in common with the superstar.

Louis flushes scarlet when he sees the boy’s eyes travel over him before they land on Lottie. Then he smiles, heads towards them slowly and Louis just doesn’t understand. Surely the boy has better things to do with his time then take a picture with Lottie (and maybe himself). It was his day off, afterall.

“Hello there, little darling.” Harry says with a smile when he reaches them, crouching down to her level to pull her into a hug. “I’m Harry.”

“I’m Charlotte!” Lottie says, her tone over excited. “Charlotte Tomlinson, but mummy and everyone else call me Lottie! Can I touch your hair? It’s quite curly. I like curly. So does Louis. He’s my brother. Him.”

She points and Louis and he offers a weak smile, sort of like an apology. Harry just returns the smile with ease, tilts his head forward and lets Lottie run her small fingers through his perfectly coiffed hair. Louis knows that he has all these hair stylists and such (which is funny to him because his name is Harry Styles) but he still can’t help but stop and wonder how the fuck he keeps his hair so lovely.

“Louis it’s so soft!” Lottie says with a squeal. Harry’s face lights up as he pulls away.

“How about a picture then, love?” he says, looking up at Louis, as if asking for a cellphone or some sort of camera. And Jesus Christ the _dimples._

“Only if you take one with my brother too!”

“Does your brother like me too?” Harry asks, his eyes not leaving Louis’ face. Louis covers his eyes with a groan. Yeah, he’s a fan. But he doesn’t need his sister outing him to some celebrity who probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass about him and is only pretending to take an interest to be polite.

“He loves you!” she says. “Even more than me! He has more posters of you than I do!”

“Okay, Lottie!” Louis says, cutting in. “That’s enough, yeah? We don’t need to be telling him everything about me. Lets just take a picture yeah? Mum needs us to get back, and we haven’t even been to Tesco’s yet.”

Harry smiles and Louis hands him his iPhone so they can take a quick selfie and whisper something to Lottie before he stands to his full height and hands the phone to her to take a picture of the two of them together. After the picture is taken, reaches to hand Louis his phone back, and her bag (that she insists on carrying around with her even though she isn’t really old enough to have anything of importance in it) falls to the ground and spills everywhere.

“Lottie!” Louis says in frustration, not noticing the way that Lottie passes Harry Louis’ phone as he drops to the sidewalk and starts picking things up. He also doesn’t notice the way that Harry slips the phone back into Lottie’s hand before crouching down and helping to finish cleaning.

But what he does notice is, after Harry bids them farewell, is that his notes app is pulled up on his phone with a message.

 

_hello, louis. you’re quite cute. 0447715463597. text me so i have your number too, yeah? xx. -harry._

 

And that’s how Louis finds himself curled in a blanket, giggling into his hand while Harry tells him some ridiculous story about a sign he saw in the crowd while they were performing. How this was the biggest show he’s ever played in his career and how he wished Louis were there the entire time, just so he could look to backstage and see him smiling on the side.

Louis just smiles because his boyfriend is such a loser and makes him feel like a ten year old, and he turns to face the wall. He’s got a giant poster of Harry next to his pillow, so it’s the first thing he sees in the morning, and the last thing he sees at night. If he tries hard enough, he can almost pretend he’s there with him. Nonetheless, it’s still amazing to hear Harry’s voice and know that it’s just for him, all his. The sleepy-post-concert-raspy voice is just his. Not million’s of others.

And the “I love you’s” whispered into the mouthpiece of a phone. Whispered into the silence of his room. Those are just Harry’s, and when Harry says it back, a smile in his voice, Louis knows those are just his too.

 

It’s a complete surprise when Harry is standing outside the door of one of his lectures two weeks later. According to the twittersphere, he was last spotted in a Chipotles in New York, before the start of Louis’ lecture. It’s a Friday, and he’s exhausted, he’s living off coffee, and he thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees the tall, lanky form of his boyfriend standing there in a fedora.

He’s got his head down low, so no one will recognize him, even though that’s probably the most recognizable head of hair (even under a hat) in the world at this point in time. But Louis can almost see his eyes darting underneath the lenses of his sunglasses, glancing for Louis’ ankles as he crooks his neck and an awkward angle, tries to keep his head down but keep a line of vision out.

Louis has learned quickly not to draw attention to the pair of them, so he just settles his bag on his shoulder and approaches him in silence. Harry’s face absolutely lights up when he sees him, and he reaches his arms out. Louis falls into them effortlessly, and he feels so safe. So at home. Like he just fits there naturally, like a puzzle piece. And he knows that it sounds like a cliche, but you never realize how much different parts of your life actually is one. Like how it is with Harry. His arms feel like home, when he’s away Louis’ heart misses him, but it makes him love Harry all that much more. So they hug and Louis breathes him in, and then they do the “I really want to hold your hand but I can’t right now because no one knows about us” back-of-the-hand brush and walk a little closer than strictly necessary to Louis’ dorm room.

When they’re behind closed doors, it’s no holds barred.

They collapse onto Louis’ bed, pressing kisses onto every inch of visible skin, trying to make up for lost time. Trying to make up for being apart. Trying to burn I love you’s into the other’s flesh while Harry presses Louis back into the mattress, pushing one of his knees between Louis’ thighs.

“Missed you, Lou.” He mumbles, letting out a groan as Louis reaches for the fly of his impossibly tight jeans. “Missed you so fucking much.”

Louis rocks up against him, desperate for something, anything, really. Their mouths clash and it’s all teeth and tongue and it’s rough and hot and messy and that’s what Louis wants. He wants Harry to fuck him into next week so that when he leaves again (because that’s inevitable and it hurts) he’ll still feel it every time he takes a step.

But of course Harry is going to be a fucking tease and roll away from him. Because that’s what the asshole does best.

“‘M tired.” He whines. Louis whimpers, pulls him close, presses their crotches together. If he has to beg for it, he will. He’ll get down on his fucking knees and suck Harry dry if that’s what it takes for him to get a little bit of satisfaction. “Flew thirteen hours just to be here now. Sleepy time for pop star.”

“Dick head.” Louis mutters, but it’s fond really. He’s in that place with Harry, now. And while he’s absolutely desperate for it, he supposes it can wait for now.

“That’s what you’ll be sucking in approximately two hours.” Harry mumbles. Louis snorts a laugh that gets progressively louder until he’s literally squeaking because he can’t breathe, and Harry is glaring at him through sleepy eyes.

“Not exactly on your A Game, love.”

“Sorry, my brain’s a bit clouded from jet lag you fucking twat.” Harry says. He hits Louis on the chest with an open palm weakly and Louis scoots up on his mattress, pulls Harry down so his head is resting on Louis’ little swell of tummy.

“Just sleep, yeah?” Louis says with a smile, carding his fingers through Harry’s curls. Harry yawns, kind of like a kitten would, and he cuddles into Louis’ side, throws an arm around his waist, closes his eyes.

 

He wakes up two hours later to the feeling of soft lips kissing up his tummy to his chest as the fabric of his shirt slides up slowly. He giggles, reaches down and tries to swat Harry away, but Harry isn’t having it. He just kisses up Louis’ navel and around his belly button gently, smiling against his skin. Kisses along the waistline of his trousers, nipping at his hip bones gently. Louis lets out a soft “hmmm” and arcs up into it, offering more of himself to Harry’s mouth. He feels Harry’s smile stretch into a smirk against his skin, and without any warning, his shirt’s gone and he’s being flipped over onto his stomach carefully.

He curls his arms around a pillow and buries his face down into the feathers, moaning quietly as he feels Harry’s lips on the dip of his back. He bites the pillow, hugs it tighter as Harry works his way up his back with feather light kisses. He moans softly, turns his head as Harry nips at the back of his neck and completely covers Louis’ body with his own. Harry lays his head on the pillow next to Louis, pulls him into a kiss, runs his hand over Louis’ bum. Louis shudders.

“Harry, please. Do something. Jesus.” Louis whispers in a voice that almost sounds like a whimper. He’s been doing that a lot today, so much for being the dominant one.

“Hips up, babe.” Harry whispers into his ear, sliding his hands down Louis’ sides slowly, helping him to raise his hips so Harry can undo his flies, tug his jeans and pants down in one fluid motion. He’s got Louis right where he wants him, and he knows it. He’s achingly hard, ready to grind down into the pillows, ready to beg.

“How am I always the one who ends up naked first?” Louis moans out as Harry reaches around to wrap his hand around his cock. His head drops to the pillow and he bites his arm to keep from crying out in relief. He rocks his hips forward into Harry’s hand, and Harry kisses between his shoulders.

“Gonna fuck you.” he mutters, nipping at the sensitive skin between his neck and shoulder. “Gonna fuck you so hard. Won’t even be able to walk when I’m through with you.”

Louis keens and bites the skin of his forearm even harder, squeezes his eyes shut as he feels Harry’s weight lift off from the bed. The bed dips only moments later, and Harry covers Louis’ body with his own once again, but instead of the scratch of fabric, it’s the warmth of smooth skin. There’s the distinct sound of a bottle of lube being uncapped, and soon after, there’s a cool, long, index finger being pressed inside of him.

“Jesus _Christ_.” he cries out as Harry crooks a finger, and ruts down into the sheets, searching for some sort of friction. “Harry, fuck. _Please_.”

“Please, what?” Harry says with a chuckle as Louis tries to decide if he should fuck down onto the mattress or back into Harry’s fingers. There’s a distinct burn as Harry presses in another finger, and Louis cries out.

“Fuck me, god damnit!” Louis says, trying to balance himself on his elbows to no avail. Because Harry’s got one hand on his back, running his fingertips up and down Louis’ spine while two of them crook up and into his prostate and it’s been so long and it feels so good that it’s almost too much and he’s nearly crying.

“Demanding today, aren’t we?” Harry asks, his voice hot in Louis’ ear. “Sure you can take it?”

“Don’t care.” Louis says, swatting one of his hands in the air absently. “Jesus.”

“Harry’s fine.” Harry replies, pulling his fingers out carefully. Louis can hear the smirk in his voice when he says it and he lets out a groan.

“You’re insufferable.” he replies, hearing the tear of the condom packet. Louis didn't care if he used one or not, but using them definitely prevented a mess after.

“Yeah, well.” Harry says, hovering over him once again. He’s pressing against him, their bodies aligned. Harry reaches for Louis’ hands and their fingers lace as he pushes in. Louis’ not nearly prepped enough so it burns more than it usually does, and when Harry bottoms out he doesn’t move, barely breathes until Louis gives him a breathy sigh and a nod.

Harry starts to move, slow at first. Finding a rhythm and smoothing out his thrusts as he goes. Louis arches up into him, trying as best he can to meet his thrusts with his hips. It’s been a long while since he’s felt this full, this whole. Like all the pieces are in place, and it’s amazing that this is all it takes.

He’s close and he doesn’t want to be, and he knows Harry’s close too because he rocks back on his knees, pulling Louis back against his chest. The change of angle allows Harry to hit his prostate with every thrust, and Louis is left a shaking mess under his touches.

“F-fuck, Harry… Shit.” and this is all he wants. He wants the feel of harder, faster, sloppier and the feel of harryharryharry leaving his lips in breathy gasps. Needs to feel Harry’s fingers digging into his hips so tightly there’ll be bruises in the morning, needs the way the boy shakes, stutters and gasps into his neck as he comes. The way he pulls at Louis’ dick once, twice, three times before Louis shoots into his hand, tipping his head back against Harry’s shoulder while trying to catch his breath.

Harry pulls out of him carefully and grabs his shirt off the floor so he can clean his hand and the few dribbles of spunk on the sheets. Louis settles back down into the pillows sleepily, motioning for Harry to join him and he does. And they both lay on their stomachs, arms slung around each other’s waists, and they just look at each other through heavy eyes.

“Missed you.” Louis mumbles, leaning his chin down onto Harry’s shoulder. “Missed you a lot, Curly.”

Harry smiles, presses a soft kiss to Louis’ lips. They’re both half asleep again, but it’s okay. They’ve got a few days, at least.

 

They make it until Saturday afternoon before someone realizes that Harry is there, which is nearly a record for them, actually. Usually someone has spotted Harry in the bath while he’s showering or having a wee, but somehow he goes unnoticed until they decide to have a walk around campus. And really, it’s Harry’s fault they’re spotted. He insists on Louis taking him out for a walk, like he’s some sort of puppy. Louis agrees after a few minutes of debating, and they both get out of bed.

Louis stretches his arms over his arms, bends down to pop the joints of his spine, and he feels Harry’s eyes on him. He stands up straight and turns his head to look over his shoulder at the curly haired boy. He even sends him a little smirk.

“See something you like?” he teases. Harry swallows.

“Only every inch of you.” Harry replies. He crosses the room in two steps and pulls Louis close, presses a soft, warm kiss to his lips.

“Alright you sap.” Louis says with a laugh. He swats Harry on the chest gently. “Go get dressed before I change my mind.”

Harry presses another kiss to his lips with a cheeky smile, and then he’s gone to put clothes on. Louis doesn’t understand why he just doesn’t change in the room, but he’s learned not to question anything the boy does. He won’t get a logical (or intelligent, for that matter) explanation, so there’s really not a point to it.

Harry returns just as Louis pulls on his tan chinos and rests his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He’s also got his hair down, instead of quiffed. Only because he’s feeling particularly lazy, and he still looks good so.

But when he turns to look at Harry, he instantly feels like a potato. Harry always looks like a model, even when he’s in that half-asleep-half-awake state of being that’s usual for him. But today he looks even more so like a model than Louis is used to. He’s wearing a bright green t-shirt with gold on the sleeves and around the collar, dark black jeans, and those godforsaken boots that Louis tells him to get rid of, but he refuses to. His hair is brushed up into his half-quiff-half-bush look and Louis lets out a noise of frustration, causing Harry to start.

“How do you do it?!” he asks. Harry furs his brows in confusion.

“What?”

“That!” Louis says, flailing his arms wildly while gesturing to the full length of Harry’s body. “All of it!” he waves his arms around his room at the multiple pictures of the two of them. “How do you manage to look like you’ve just stepped off the runway. It’s not fair. I’m dating a could-be-Burberry-Model and you’re dating a Yorkshire Potato!”

Harry laughs and walks over to Louis’ wall of pictures, points to each one as he explains.

“This one was our first date, needed to impress you.” he says, pointing to the first. “This one was after a photoshoot, didn’t feel like changing. That one was because my managers thought I was going to get papped on the way to meeting you. And that one.” He points at the poster beside Louis’ bed. “Was obviously a photoshoot, where my stylists were present for every clothing choice I made.”

“Still.” Louis says with a sigh. “You make an effort and look like you don’t even try and that’s not fair.”

“Well, you always look stunning, so I could say the same.” Harry says with a smile, doing that thing he does where he lifts half his mouth first and the rest follows. Louis returns it and holds out his hand. Harry looks at him skeptically.

“No one’s around this early in the afternoon. They’re all nursing hangovers. If we see anyone, then we can drop hands, yeah?”

Harry nods and takes his hand, and it’s nice. Their fingers fit together so perfectly, and Louis wishes he could do this all the time. But Harry wants to keep it quiet, because while he isn’t in the closet, he wants to keep Louis to himself. Doesn’t want to drag him into his world while he’s still at university and under enough stress. Louis agrees with him wholeheartedly. He’s seen what happens when Harry is linked to another person, heard Harry on the phone at night when its gotten particularly bad for any of his friends. He doesn’t want Harry to have to deal with him thrown in the mix. Not that Louis didn’t get it already, but at least now it was manageable. If they went public with the nature of their relationship instead of leaving it a flurry of rumors it would be horrible.

That’s why he treasures the feeling of their hands swinging back and forth between them as they walk the quiet campus. They don’t say much, really. Unless Louis stops to point something out with a funny anecdote. It’s just nice, comfortable silence between the two of them, and Louis loves it.

They’re in the courtyard when they hear the first “oh my GOD! It’s HARRY STYLES!”

And then there’s five girls around them. And then ten. And then twenty. There must be fifty people surrounding them by the time Louis is pushed fully to the side. He sighs, pulls out his phone, and starts a new round of Candy Crush while Harry does his pop star thing, and takes pictures and things. Louis looks up once or twice, only to see that one girl has Harry by the arm and is whispering something in his ear that’s making him smile like a fool. A flare of jealousy rises up his throat like bile, but then Harry shakes his head and gives the girl a hug. The crowd disperses a few minutes later, happy with their pictures and things (that are surely going to end up on the internet later with some title about Harry visiting his rumored boyfriend, Louis Tomlinson at University), and Harry pulls Louis up to his feet.

“Getting rather cozy with your fans, eh?” Louis says, half joking.

“Oh, that girl I hugged?” Harry says with a grin. “Her name is Tricia. She says she’s in a diction class with you and that we make a lovely couple.”

Louis’ jealousy dies down after that and he hugs his boy around the waist, presses a kiss to his nose.

“We are quite cute.”


End file.
